Wednesday, October 15, 2008

She
is morbidly interested in gossip on the artists' lives more than in
their works. She founded Art&Gossip, a magazine that photographs
the loves and betrayals of the art stars, the lobbies, the spicy
behind-the-scenes action. With her friend Paparazza, Gozzy organizes
lively soirées devoted to tittle-tattle and backbiting.

A
man of sterling character, rigorous, granitic. Dressed in black, he
looks straight stiff and straight as a pole. The only thing I
like about 0.2 is his superfast motorized skateboard. When he gets on
he seems like an Easter Island statue wandering around the museums.

Tears,
for 0.2, are an obscene spectacle, smut of paraded emotivity, showy
lack of self-control. Whenever he sees people crying he pounces on
his victims with his skateboard and cancels every single tear with
dry, precise, surgical thrusts of his tongue as if he wanted to jerk
the tears off their face.

If he sees a fine picture he wets his pants. He picks his nose during performances. If you frequent the shows of underground artists you will certainly have seen him, like a picachu lost in the crowd of visitors, with his big yellow sweaty belly hanging over low-waisted jeans. He speaks loudly while he drinks the usual drink and spits the olive aiming at his navel.

A
sign neither of wisdom nor premature graying, W.P.'s mop of white
hair is nothing but an emblem of surrender, #1 pale rag exhibited to
placate the enemy attack. W.P. has given up, he's said a definitive
yes to all contemporary art. He accepts every new current imposed by
the system of international art without the slightest reserve.

And
yet one day, during a conference at the university, while his friend
Jep-Professor was praising J.K.'s paintings, I saw him pretend to
cough and I heard - just just barely - an almost imperceptible -
nooooo - resonate in the hall.

*******
regally strides down the red carpet that accompanies him everywhere
like a tapis roulant. To see him walk with his head held high, with
that grimace so collet montè, reminds us of certain Tiepolo frescoes
where all you see of the faces are the holes of the nose. He rarely
appears at the balcony of his loft to address the populace.

Fössi too much! He invents a new art movement every week. Fössi has
just got to calm down. Too many ephemeral enthusiasms. He wants to
find the new genius of art, and so we see him continually organizing
new shows, writing ponderous catalogues on a ravenous binge of
unrestrained accumulation. Inevitably due to haste and distraction he makes mistakes and the balance in the end is negative. So he falls
into depression. A pity because he's goooood. If he tries hard he
can make it. Everyone's talking about it. Fössi has become #1 case.

They
say he is a great intellectual with one single deficiency: due to
impaired sight he recognizes only the angles of the figures. In the
paintings 360° particularly appreciates the precision of the right
angles of the frame. To measure them he keeps in his pocket a
collection of goniometers, which he also uses in the pursuit of his
idea of cataloguing all the angles of art.

Liar.
She omits deliberately lots of news on the system of art. An
intelligence devoted to mixing people up by manipulating information.
Her favorite interlocutors are Councilors for the Arts, sports
reporters, PR people. People who can't tell when she's bullshitting
them. With a silencer it's easy to bump artists off. She knows this
very well. She has a company specialized in museum furnishings.

Kappa-gnacca

Happy
or sad? Just by looking at her you really can't tell. Some day I'd
like to decipher that strange expression of hers. Melancholy
cheerfulness? Happy disappointment? The artists Kappa-gnacca likes
are equally indefinable, unplaceable, impossible. She tells enigmatic
jokes that you understand with a bitter smile only years later.

Under
his raincoat he keeps (carefully catalogued) the souvenir photos of
his years as a militant critic. He was young then, he still believed
in art. If someone reproaches him for his current lack of ideas,
Nostalghia goes all atremble and opens his raincoat displaying his
glorious past. Silence falls all around and he as a sign of triumph
emits a counter-tenor top note. A bit hoarse >>> we must admit.

Piero
the Swapper

Since
artists have become stars just like musicians, Swapper can no longer
figure out who does what. He confuses the New Romantics with Carlo
Maria Mariani, Hard Rock with Art Brut. Gutai is not a Manga
character..."Paragraphs e Sentences" are not Dogma... Someone needs to tell him
that Raffaella Carrà is 1 Italian TV
showgirl, not 1 video artist!

With
her long black whiskers like a Chinese mandarin, Moustakibaby
pretends to be the art critic of the "Loveno" cultural
center in Venice Beach, but in fact she traffics artworks between
Russia and Japan. If an artist of real talent sets foot in her
cultural center, Moustakibaby's reaction is quite strange >>>
her whiskers stand on end and she meows undecipherable phrases as she
dashes away scattering rusty tacks in her wake.

It
is easy to portray PERMANENT 900. Just scribble a bush of walking
hair, a permanent inflated by a first-rate hairdresser. Above the
imposing mane we pencil in a little pipe. Like a crooked little
smokestack. For her the glorious century of modern art will never
come to an end, it is a PERMANENT reality. When the smokestack on her
head puffs a tuft of hair it is an unequivocal signal that PERMANENT
900 has had 1 (old) idea.

Madame
Fairy? She is a member of that little group (gnomes, elves) that
materializes itself only at the university. She flits light as a
butterfly through the classrooms alighting on the professorial chair
with a sigh. She takes her seat conjuring up dream landscapes. She
tells of fabulous journeys, beautiful things that happen far far
away. Outside the university Fairy does not exist.

"
"

"
" never does anything for "nothing". He writes well
but not "well", sometimes he writes badly, but not "badly".
"That" "which" "he says" he "often"
"says again" in " ".

Cicci-Impacci

Dazed
expression. Schoolboy's uniform. Sugar skull (toy design) in his
hand. Cicci-Impacci is an artist and art critic. He lives continually
tormented by a thousand Hamletic doubts on contemporary art. And he
can't hold himself back, he speaks about his uncertainties with
everyone. Is it better to do graffiti on walls or exhibit in a
gallery? Underground or museums? Is it right to play the whore with
the first art collector who comes along? Cicci-Impacci is thinking
hard.